Archive of Our Own

He’d only agreed to the trial patch because it was optional. Because no one said experimental. Just words like ‘optimised’ and ‘targeted regulation’. They were always testing things during off-season runs — supplements, focus drills, microsleep routines. This wasn’t supposed to be different.

Carlos had worn the patch under his race suit all morning. Just a half-day of data collection. Then someone took one look at his vitals and sent him straight to medical. He hadn’t argued. He had felt strange. Warm. Jittery. Heart rate a little high. But he’d chalked it up to caffeine or dehydration, or maybe something dodgy at breakfast. What he hadn’t expected was four doctors with serious expressions, and a biometric report on a tablet that already had his name highlighted in red.

He sat now in an isolation room, temperature slightly cooler than normal, and watched a senior technician scroll through lines of data on a fixed wall monitor.

“Mr Sainz,” she said without looking at him. “How are you feeling now?”

Carlos cleared his throat. “Warm. A bit… shaky, maybe. And I’m sweating for no reason.”

Another doctor — this one in McLaren orange — wrote that down. Carlos caught the quick glance they exchanged. It didn’t settle him.

“Could you describe the physical symptoms more specifically?” the woman asked. “Discomfort? Pressure? Any stimulation in the lower abdomen or groin?”

Carlos blinked. “Sorry?”

“Any arousal.”

He stared at her. “What?”

The room didn’t move. No one laughed. No one said it was a joke.

Carlos felt a flush start at his chest and crawl upwards. “Why are you asking that?”

One of the other doctors — a man in dark grey, neutral team branding — cleared his throat and took over.

“We believe you’re experiencing a hyper-reactive hormonal saturation loop triggered by the patch. It’s extremely rare and only occurs when the subject has a pre-existing, suppressed stimulus in the limbic-sexual centres.”

Carlos stared at him, expression blank.

The woman tried again, more gently. “The patch is designed to regulate distracting signals. Stress, anxiety, intrusive thoughts. In your case, the patch found a signal it couldn’t suppress. Instead, it looped it internally. What you’re feeling now is the compound’s failure to redirect that arousal.”

A different doctor added, “The more you fight it, the more your body amplifies the signal. That’s why the symptoms are escalating.”

Carlos let out a laugh. Just once. Short and hard. “You’re saying this thing gave me an erection?”

Silence.

He looked between them. His heart was beating faster now— not from the drug, but from the shape of where this was going.

Carlos’ voice cut in, low and deliberate. “And this… how exactly is it going to stop?”

This time, no one answered at first. Then the one in orange spoke. “We’ve run a secondary diagnostic. Hormonal, neurological, and psychological markers all indicate that your body has fixated on a specific external subject. The most efficient — and only proven — method to down-regulate the feedback loop is physical sexual contact with the target of the imprint.”

Carlos blinked. “No.”

The woman nodded calmly. “We’re not recommending anything unsafe or non-consensual. But your system is locked in a closed loop. Solo release will not satisfy the condition. The body requires penetrative confirmation of the imprint.”

“Penetrative—” Carlos was on his feet in an instant, staring at them like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “No, no, no… you cannot be serious. That is completely insane.”

“It’s well-documented,” said the man in grey. “And you are deteriorating. Left untreated, this can cause circulatory collapse. Hallucinations. Respiratory distress.”

Carlos felt his legs weaken. Sat again.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. No way. You have made a mistake.”

“We haven’t.”

He couldn’t look at them.

Then he said it, through his teeth. “Who?”

The room went quiet.

He looked up, his jaw clenched. “So you are telling me my body… it has decided it wants to have intercourse with someone—” the word came out strained, as if it tasted wrong— “then at least tell me who, no?”

The woman turned the monitor toward him. A profile lit up.

Name. Photo. Biofeedback correlation data.
Lando Norris
Saturation: 94%

Carlos stared at the screen. His whole body seemed to jolt, breath catching sharp in his throat. Cold spread through his chest, then heat rushed in after it, so fierce he thought for a moment he might be sick.

He shook his head, words stumbling out before he could think. “No. No, this… this cannot be right.” His mouth opened, closed again. “I’m not—” The rest collapsed in his throat, nothing fitting, nothing making sense.

The medical staff in the room gave him space to find the words. He never did. The heat in his stomach only coiled tighter. His skin burned, a restless fire under the surface, and his cock throbbed dully in his trousers, traitorous and aching.

He pushed himself to his feet again, less steady this time. “So you’re saying—what? That I’ll die unless I—” His voice cracked, caught on the thought.

“No,” said the McLaren doctor. His tone was flat, professional. “But you will not improve. You will deteriorate. And when the compound finishes leaving your system, your body will trigger the same response again. Likely stronger.” He paused, then added, “If we do not intervene, you risk systemic collapse. Induction. Coma. The only way to break the loop is to complete the imprint sequence.”

Carlos couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. The words slid around in his head, impossible to hold. He wasn’t gay. He had never wanted a man. But the name on the screen, the thought of Lando—of taking him—made his body twist with heat so sharp it was almost pain. Wrong and unbearable, except it wasn’t. His cock pulsed harder, and he felt his breath stumble.

No. There had to be another way. Another test, another subject, another drug they hadn’t tried yet. He wanted to demand it, to beg them to keep looking. Because this—this couldn’t be the only option. Not with Lando. Not like this.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat locked tight, his pulse thundering in his ears. He pressed his hands hard against his thighs, as though holding himself still could push the need back down. But it only worsened. Every second the craving built, relentless, savage, until it blurred the edges of thought itself.

By the time he found his voice again, it wasn’t defiance that came out but defeat. Low, unsteady, raw. “Then… if it has to be him… I will.”

Someone placed a bottle of lube on the side table. He didn’t even see who it was, didn’t see them leave. The room was suddenly quiet. Just him and the knowledge of what his body wanted, what it needed.

*~*~*~*~*

When they called Lando back to the medical building, he assumed it was something administrative. Debrief, maybe, or a software bug in the telemetry logs. His patch trial that morning had gone fine — stable vitals, no adverse symptoms, just a lingering headache and a mild spike in resting heart rate. Nothing unusual.

He expected paperwork.

What he got was a closed-door consultation room and three people waiting for him, none of them from McLaren. Two wore neutral branding. One — the lead — wore a Williams tech vest over a black shirt. Her name tag read Dr. L. Weber, but she didn’t introduce herself.

She gestured to a chair. “Please sit down, Mr Norris.”

Lando sat. His eyes drifted to the wall-mounted display. The file open on the screen wasn’t his. It was Carlos’ profile. He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

The doctor adjusted her tablet. “You were involved in Phase 1 of the cognitive regulation programme during this year’s testing, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your biometric data was entered into the compatibility pool, along with the rest of the control group. That included base-line neural resonance markers, visual memory responses, and physical proximity signals. Are you aware?”

Lando nodded. “That was standard.”

“Correct. Today, during Phase 2, another driver experienced an adverse neurochemical reaction to the patch system. A rare failure in suppression redirection. His endocrine and arousal systems are now locked in an escalating feedback loop.”

Carlos’ profile filled the monitor — name, photograph, columns of data shifting in real time. Lando had seen it when he entered, and he hadn’t looked away. He didn’t need the explanation to know where this was going. Some part of him had already accepted it, even before the words were spoken.

Dr Weber continued. “The condition is non-fatal. However, his physical symptoms are increasing — elevated heart rate, muscular tension, arousal pain, cognitive disruption, and temperature dysregulation. His body is no longer responding to self-stimulation or chemical sedation.”

Lando made himself ask anyway, his voice even. “Which driver?”

There was a pause. Not dramatic. Just professional.

“Carlos Sainz.”

Lando’s eyes dropped then, briefly, before he forced them back to the screen. He said nothing.

“The system isolated a subject-specific imprint,” she went on. “The only proven way to complete the neuro-reset is through penetrative sex with the imprinted subject. Once the imprint is physically confirmed, the signal should resolve and the hormone cycle can return to baseline.”

Lando didn’t move. His mouth was dry. “So he needs to have sex.”

“Yes.”

His stomach dipped, though he already knew what the answer would be. He kept his eyes on the screen. “And the imprint is me.”

“Yes.”

For a heartbeat he felt nothing — not shock, not even discomfort. Just stillness, as if something old inside him had stirred and gone quiet again. Of course it was Carlos. Who else could it ever have been?

Another clinician — younger, mid-thirties maybe — stepped in. “This has to be voluntary,” he said quickly. “We’re not forcing anything. Your consent is paramount. You’re not obligated. This isn’t a requirement.”

Lando turned to him. “What happens to him if I say no?”

Silence.

Then Dr Weber said, “His condition will worsen. He may suffer neural misfires, body tremors, and progressive sexual dysfunction. Depending on the severity of the hormone saturation, it may lead to longer-term health risks — including circulatory distress, muscular breakdown, and possible cardiac strain.”

Lando nodded. Once.

“And the only way to stop that is if I let him fuck me?” Lando’s voice was steady, almost too steady. He didn’t flinch. It wasn’t a crude question. More like he was asking about the weather, though inside his chest something had twisted tight.

Dr Weber replied, evenly, “Yes. Specifically, he must engage in penetrative sexual intercourse with you until ejaculation. That will trigger the release required to end the loop.”

Another pause. Lando’s thoughts caught in the silence. Of course it was Carlos. It had always been Carlos. Not like this, not ever like this — but who else could it have been?

“Okay,” he said. The word felt strange on his tongue, both heavier and lighter than it should have.

Dr Weber blinked. “You’re consenting?”

Lando swallowed, nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll do it.” He didn’t let his voice waver. He couldn’t.

The younger clinician straightened, anxious. “You don’t have to decide now.”

“I just did.” He forced the words out before he could think too hard about what they meant. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t what he’d once wanted. But it was Carlos’ life. That was enough.

He pushed to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, but he didn’t pause. “Where is he?”

*~*~*~*~*

The room was too quiet after they left. Carlos sat where they’d told him to wait, elbows on his thighs, back bowed, trying to breathe through something that didn’t feel like arousal so much as pressure — a force crawling beneath his skin, coiled and pulsing, unspent.

The air was too warm, or maybe it was just him. He could feel sweat gathering at the base of his neck, sliding down the line of his spine. His heartbeat was too fast. His skin too sensitive. And no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t seem to clear the fog behind his eyes. They hadn’t said when Lando would arrive. Maybe they hadn’t even told him yet. Maybe he was still being briefed. But the door was shut, and Carlos was alone now, and that was worse.

He hadn’t asked for time to think. But now that he had it, there was nothing he could do with it. Nothing but sit here and feel his body betraying him again and again in waves he couldn’t suppress. Heat rising low in his gut, the ache returning like clockwork, as inevitable as breath.

He was hard, fully, and it hurt — a low, dragging pulse that had gone on too long, unrelenting no matter how still he stayed. He’d already tried the obvious. Tried to get ahead of the discomfort, tried to grit through it. Twice. His hand had barely closed around himself before his body rejected the effort entirely — nothing satisfying in it, nothing to resolve the signal that kept looping deeper into his system. The doctors had warned him. Solo release wouldn’t work. Not with the imprint in place.

And now it was Lando.

That was the part he couldn’t make make sense. Not even when he said it to himself. Not even when he let the name repeat silently in the back of his mind. It had felt like a joke at first, some glitch in the scan, something too absurd to even react to properly. Except his body had reacted. Instantly. Viscerally.

Like it had been waiting for someone to say it out loud.

He swallowed, jaw clenched. The burn behind his eyes had nothing to do with tears — just exhaustion and disbelief, the sour edge of humiliation that came with being told what he wanted before he even knew it himself.

But he didn’t. That was the point. He didn’t want Lando. He never had. He wasn’t attracted to men. His entire life — the dating, the relationships, every instinct, every desire — had been directed at women. He had never once questioned it. Never once imagined otherwise. Especially not with Lando.

Lando was a friend. An ex-teammate. Comfortable in a way that made Carlos trust him without thinking about it. Someone who teased him. Pushed him. Listened when Carlos spoke seriously and never dismissed the weight of what racing cost them, year after year. Someone easy to like. To keep close.

But not like that.

Not in the way that Carlos’ body was currently screaming for.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as another pulse of heat crawled through his abdomen. Every breath he took seemed to make it worse, made the restlessness beneath his skin multiply. His hands ached to grab, to move. To take.

The images came too easily now. Not fantasies, not even memories — just pure projection. Flashes of skin, of heat, of pressure. Lando shirtless in summer, dark curls damp with sweat. Lando walking ahead of him after training, towel slung low on his hips, the narrow taper of his waist framed in soft cotton, and Carlos — for the first time — seeing it. Noticing the slope of his back, the compact power of his legs, the way he moved like he was built to be held down.

Carlos inhaled sharply through his nose, throat tightening. That wasn’t his thought. It couldn’t be. It didn’t belong to him. It was the patch. The imprint. Chemical interference. Not desire. Not real.

But he was hard now. Fully. Painfully. His cock pressed against the inside of his trousers, and all he could feel was the absence of weight, of friction, of Lando. That unbearable wrongness of being alone, of not being inside the only thing his body would accept.

He dropped his head into his hands, elbows digging into his knees. He didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Just breathed like he was trying to stay conscious. The ache was everywhere now — not just arousal but a kind of craving, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than the body. Like instinct. Like something pre-programmed and ancient, clawing toward what it wanted without permission.

He hadn’t heard anyone approach. But when the door unlocked, he knew it wasn’t a mistake.

The soft hiss of the seal opening might as well have been thunder. It felt final. He didn’t move. Didn’t lift his head or shift his weight. The room felt smaller suddenly, like something massive had entered it before it had even crossed the threshold.

He wasn’t ready. He never would be. And yet, there was no part of him that believed he could stop this now. Not with the heat gathering low in his spine, with the way his cock pulsed just from the shift in air.

This was happening. Not because he wanted it. Not because he chose it. Because his body had already made that choice for him, and now Lando was going to pay for it.

The thought made his stomach lurch.

Carlos swallowed hard, jaw clenched, shame rising faster than the desire ever had. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see Lando walk through that door, calm and composed, ready to offer something he never should’ve had to. It would make it real. It would make it unbearable.

And still, beneath it all — the shame, the disbelief, the panic — Carlos felt himself responding, the pressure in his groin intensifying just at the knowledge that Lando was near. Like the proximity itself was confirmation. Like his body had been waiting for this, and now that it was close, it refused to hold back.

He hated that. Hated how weak it made him feel.

He stayed perfectly still, willing his breath to slow. He would face it. He would do what was necessary. But he couldn’t look at Lando just yet. Because the one thing worse than being reduced to this… was knowing that Lando had said yes.

And that his body was already aching for him anyway.

*~*~*~*~*

The corridor was too clean. Not hospital-clean, not sterile, but scrubbed of sound and consequence. Like it had been built for containment — a place where difficult things could happen quietly, without ever echoing back.

Lando walked it alone.

No escort. No clipboard briefing. Just the hum of recycled air and the soft scuff of his shoes as he made his way toward the sealed end of the diagnostics wing. He didn’t know what he expected to feel. Numb, maybe. He’d hoped for that. But the ache had settled low in his chest and hadn’t left since the doctors had said Carlos’ name.

Carlos Sainz, locked in a room, sweating through his clothes, his body tearing itself apart with need — and the only thing that could stop it was Lando. Carlos, who was still one of the people he spoke to most. Voice notes. Late-night messages. Quiet dinners in Monaco when their schedules aligned. And through it all, he’d kept his feelings hidden — years of wanting, folded carefully into friendship. Never acted on. Never spoken.

And now it was being handed to him — not as romance, not as choice, but as necessity. The worst, most backward way imaginable.

It had been harmless, once. Just an admiration. Respect, maybe. Carlos had been older, smarter, magnetic in a way Lando had tried not to envy. They’d shared a team for two years, and Lando had spent most of that time wondering what it might feel like to be close to him without a visor in the way. He’d moved on — thought he had — until moments like this pulled it all back into focus. The want. The softness of it. The brutal unfairness of having it offered now, not as affection, not even as desire, but as medicine.

Because this wasn’t Carlos wanting him. This was Carlos needing relief. And Lando — just his body, not his mind, not his heart — happened to be the one thing Carlos’ system had decided would work.

The door was ten paces away now. White, matte, unmarked. Lando paused a few feet from it, his fingers grazing the wall beside the frame. The smoothness there felt clinical. Like the inside of a test chamber. He stayed still.

He thought about saying no. Not seriously — not with any intention — but just to imagine it. To imagine a version of himself that refused to be wanted like this. That chose dignity over intimacy that wasn’t real. But he’d said yes. And deep down, they both knew he’d never do anything else.

Carlos didn’t know, couldn’t know, what it would cost. That letting Lando in would mean opening a door that had never fully closed in the first place. That Lando had dreamed about this — not the circumstance, never this — but the contact. The closeness. Skin. Trust.

For years, he’d imagined what it would be like to be kissed by Carlos. To be held down, to be touched with intent. And now it was going to happen, but not with love. Not even with want. Just desperation.

Carlos would look at him and see a fix. A pressure valve.

Lando would look at him and see everything he’d once hoped for — hollowed out and handed back like obligation.

He exhaled once. Shallow. Then pressed his security band to the door panel. The lock disengaged. He stepped inside.

*~*~*~*~*

He didn’t look up when the door shut. Just kept staring at the same pale square of floor tile beneath his feet, willing his breath to stay steady.

But the air had already changed.

Carlos could feel it before a single footstep fell — feel the pressure shift around him, something warm and low curling through his spine and pooling in his stomach. His hands were clenched loosely between his knees. His skin buzzed. His cock was half-hard already.

He didn’t need to look to know Lando was in the room. His body recognised it instantly. Reacted before he gave it permission to.

There was movement — fabric shifting, soft and efficient. No hesitation. No noise. Just the sound of clothes being folded or set aside, one piece after another. Carlos shut his eyes briefly. Lando wasn’t drawing it out. Wasn’t trying to make a scene. He was just… getting ready. Calmly. Willingly. As if it didn’t affect him at all.

That thought made Carlos feel something bitter curl under his ribs.

He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t wanted it. And yet every part of him felt like it had been waiting — longing — for Lando to walk through that door. And that terrified him more than anything else. He’d never thought of Lando this way. Not ever. Not even in passing.

Lando was his teammate once. A good friend. One of the people he trusted most on the grid, even now. But never — never — had he imagined this. Not his hands. Not his mouth. Not his body spread across a bed, offered without protest.

It had to be the patch. That was the only explanation. The only way to make sense of how badly he wanted to move. To touch. To take. His breath hitched when the mattress shifted. He didn’t mean to look — but something in his chest lurched and he turned before he could stop himself. And what he saw made his knees go weak.

Lando was already lying down, completely naked, limbs relaxed. No trace of shame or seduction — just a steady, open calm. His legs were parted, chest rising slow and even, arms at his sides like he wasn’t bracing for anything. Like he’d made peace with whatever was about to happen. His gaze found Carlos’, steady and unflinching.

It was unbearable.

Carlos stood too fast, suddenly desperate to move — to do something, anything to make the feeling in his chest subside. He undressed without thought, yanking his trousers down, fumbling with his shirt, grabbing blindly for the bottle of lube on the nearby tray. He slicked his fingers first, not really thinking, then knelt onto the bed, one knee between Lando’s legs, and reached for him.

He didn’t say anything — just pressed his fingers between Lando’s thighs and eased one inside. Then two.

Lando breathed out, soft and steady, muscles tensing around him but never resisting. He didn’t shift. Didn’t close his eyes. Just lay there and let it happen. Carlos felt himself throb against his thigh. He pulled his fingers out, lubed his cock in one fast stroke, lined up, and pressed forward.

The stretch was sharp. Too fast. He was shaking with it — with shame, with the unbearable relief of being inside. The heat around him, the way Lando clenched and gave all at once — it wrecked him. It was too much, too good, pleasure searing through the raw edges until his body was nothing but sensation. All he could do was move. Fast. Rough. Desperate.

He fucked Lando with a brutal rhythm, thrusting hard and deep, hands gripping his waist to hold him still. Every push into that molten heat stole his breath, every drag back made his thighs tremble with need. It wasn’t about precision — it was about force. About chasing the high. Erasing the shame. Drowning in how incredible it felt to have Lando take him like this.

Lando moaned under him, high and breathless. His hands twisted in the sheets, his hips lifted to meet each thrust. His cock was hard, neglected between them, and Carlos wasn’t thinking when he reached down and wrapped a hand around it.

Just one stroke. Two.

Lando gasped, voice catching, and came. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a quiet, bitten-off moan and a few weak pulses over Carlos’ fingers, his body shuddering but already going soft. It was the kind of orgasm that looked like surrender more than pleasure.

Carlos didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. If anything, he moved harder.

It was too much — Lando’s heat, the way he looked, the way he’d just given in like it meant nothing. It destroyed something inside Carlos and made everything else unravel. His orgasm hit like a gut-punch, hips jerking as he spilled deep inside, gasping through gritted teeth, breath torn out of him like it hurt.

He pulled out too fast.

Lando winced, rolled onto his side. Carlos didn’t dare look. He staggered back, one hand catching the wall, the other still slick from Lando’s come. His legs trembled. His stomach churned.

Lando sat up, reached for a paper towel from the bedside table, and wiped himself off with quick, economical movements. Not rough, not gentle. Just efficient. Like he wanted to erase every trace of what had just happened. He dressed in silence. Carlos didn’t speak.

When Lando left, the door shut behind him as quietly as it had opened. And Carlos stayed there, heart pounding, sick with something he couldn’t name.

*~*~*~*~*

The plane was nearly empty.

Just a few rows of quiet passengers, most of them asleep, heads tipped back or folded against the windows. The cabin was dim, the desert night giving way to the first faint streaks of dawn as they left Bahrain behind and cut northwest across the Gulf. Europe still felt far, but Monaco would come quick enough once he landed in Nice. A long haul made shorter by the thought of it, yet Lando hadn’t stopped checking the time.

He sat in the window seat, hoodie drawn over his head, knees pulled up just enough to wedge his feet against the armrest in front of him. His phone was in his lap, screen dark. He hadn’t opened it since they’d let him go.

The medical team had cleared him less than two hours after the reset. Monitored his vitals, confirmed Carlos’ stabilisation, told him he could return to Monaco immediately if he wanted.

He had.

He hadn’t said goodbye to Carlos. Hadn’t asked if he was staying in Bahrain or flying home. Hadn’t asked anything at all. He’d just dressed, nodded to the doctors, and walked out.

The soreness had kicked in on the way to the airport — not sharp, but deep. The kind that stayed low in the hips and made his thighs ache when he stood too fast. He’d braced for it, expected it. Carlos hadn’t exactly been gentle. Not that he could blame him. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Lando had offered. Carlos had taken. The reset worked. His body had done what it was meant to do — accommodated, yielded, submitted — and now Carlos would be fine. They were both cleared. Nothing more needed to be said.

Lando stared out the window. Clouds turned silver in the fading light. Below, the landscape shifted from industrial grey to green. He blinked slowly, lids heavy. His body was tired. Hollowed out. Not in a dramatic way — just quiet, low-burning fatigue. His legs still felt warm where Carlos had held him. His chest still flushed when he thought about the moment Carlos had entered him — no words, no warning, just a grip on his thighs and the weight of someone he trusted fucking into him like he couldn’t bear not to.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it?

He did trust Carlos.

Always had. Since they were teammates. Since McLaren. Since the first time Carlos had looked at him and taken him seriously — not as a rookie, not as some twitchy little overthinker with too much to prove, but as a person. As someone who could be relied on.

Lando had wanted him for years. Quietly. Privately. Never in any way that might threaten the friendship. At first, it had been stupid things. Carlos in a t-shirt and joggers, hair still wet after training. The way he stretched before qualifying. The way he always made time — always gave attention when someone needed it, like it cost him nothing. The way his hand felt steadying on the small of Lando’s back, guiding him through crowds, making space.

But Lando had buried all that. Pushed it down. Told himself it didn’t matter. Carlos was straight. Carlos dated beautiful, confident women and had never once looked at him in a way that meant anything.

So Lando made peace with it. Made peace with being close, being important — even if never in the way he most wanted. And now… now he’d had Carlos. Not his affection. Not his attention. Not his want, not really. Just his body. Just the consequence of a drug and a neurological glitch and a desperate need to stay alive.

Carlos had needed someone. And Lando had volunteered.

And God, the worst part wasn’t even the physical act. It wasn’t how it felt to be entered without kindness, or to come so half-heartedly he barely remembered it. It wasn’t the bruises on his hips or the stretch in his thighs or the way his voice had caught on a moan he hadn’t wanted to make.

The worst part was how badly he’d wanted it to mean something anyway. How some twisted, hidden part of him had still hoped — right up until Carlos came inside him and rolled away without a word — that maybe this would be the thing. The moment. The crack in the door.

But it wasn’t. It had never been.

He pressed his forehead lightly against the window and exhaled. The sky outside was almost gold now. Monaco wasn’t far. Lando closed his eyes and tried not to think about the weight he’d felt in Carlos’ hands. Or the way he’d clenched his teeth through it. Or the simple, crushing fact that sometimes being wanted meant nothing — not if it wasn’t real.

Not if it was just biology. Just survival. He tightened his arms around his legs and told himself it would pass. That it always had before.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat was too quiet when he got back.

Carlos unlocked the door with one hand and toed off his shoes without thinking, bag still slung over his shoulder. The lights blinked on automatically, flooding the hallway in soft amber. Everything was just as he’d left it — clean, sparse, nothing out of place — but it felt… wrong. Or maybe just wrong for him.

He set the bag down by the sofa and stood there for a few seconds, looking around like something might reveal itself. Like some part of him might unhook and relax now that he was home.

But it didn’t.

The silence pressed in from all sides.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then headed straight for the shower. Water scalding hot. Ten minutes, then twenty. He scrubbed until his skin stung, until his chest was pink and raw and nothing about his body felt like it belonged to him anymore.

Later, he ate half a protein bar and lay down on the sofa, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. Training schedules. Circuit previews. Nothing stuck. His eyes burned.

Carlos tried to tell himself he was just tired. That was all. The testing had been long. The situation strange. He’d barely slept. Of course his head felt off. But the thoughts kept returning. Not in full images, at first. Just pieces. A flicker of a sound. The burn in his thighs. The way Lando had looked when Carlos had—

He sat up too fast and shoved his hand through his hair. Swore under his breath.

Don’t.

But his mind didn’t listen. It went there anyway. To the way Lando had moaned when he first pushed in — not loud, not forced, just breath catching in his throat like he hadn’t expected it to feel like that. To the tension in Lando’s legs. The way his hands gripped the sheets. The exact curve of his waist when Carlos held him down.

And the release.

Fuck.

Carlos closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He’d never come like that in his life. Not with anyone. Not under any circumstance. It had been full-body, whole-system, devastating. It had emptied something out of him and left something else behind in its place.

Something he didn’t know what to do with. Because it hadn’t gone away. It should’ve. The patch had been flushed. The loop was closed. The doctors had confirmed it — his vitals were back to baseline, neurological markers stable. He was in control again.

But if it had only been the patch, wouldn’t it have vanished with the chemicals? Wouldn’t the memories fade the way hunger did after a meal, the way thirst went once you drank? He told himself it was biology, just a glitch in his system. Yet it was Lando he kept seeing, Lando he kept hearing, Lando he couldn’t push away.

And not just the sex.

The silence. The way Lando hadn’t flinched, hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a single request. Just let it happen. Carlos hadn’t kissed him. Hadn’t touched him gently. Hadn’t even said his name. He’d taken what was offered and finished fast. Too fast. And when it was over, he hadn’t even looked at Lando’s face.

He remembered the way Lando sat up afterwards. The way he wiped himself off, brisk and mechanical, not looking at Carlos either. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like it was just a transaction. It should’ve felt clinical. Maybe even efficient. But it didn’t.

It felt ugly.

Carlos exhaled hard and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. There were no answers there. Just shadows cast by the downlights and the low hum of the air system. He tried to remember what it felt like before. Before the patch. Before the protocol. When Lando was just Lando — brilliant, annoying, competitive, loyal, always quick with a joke. Someone Carlos liked. Someone he trusted. Someone he’d never once imagined naked under him, moaning into the mattress as he—

He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t helping. He needed sleep. Or exercise. Or something to snap him out of it.

He pushed himself off the sofa and grabbed his keys. Went for a run that turned into a sprint by the marina and a long, brutal uphill stretch past the tennis courts. His thighs burned. His lungs ached. Still, he kept going.

But it didn’t help. Nothing did. Not the workout. Not the food. Not the cold shower he forced himself into afterward. Because the second he lay in bed that night, heart still racing and skin still hot from the memory of Lando’s skin under his palms, it all came rushing back.

The way it felt.

The way he felt.

The guilt. The desire. And the awful truth at the edge of all of it. That it wasn’t fading.

It was worse.

And he didn’t know what that meant yet.

*~*~*~*~*

Monaco didn’t feel like home when he landed.

It was just a place he knew, with streets that fit his body and keys that still turned the lock. The flat was clean when he arrived — Max had checked on it, probably, or maybe someone from management — but the stillness inside hit him like a bruise. He dropped his bag by the door and stood there for a moment, waiting for his own presence to catch up. It didn’t.

He told himself he was fine.

Told himself he’d been fine from the moment they’d said you can go. That the doctors had cleared him, that Carlos had stabilised, that everything had worked exactly as it was supposed to. He’d agreed. He’d volunteered. No one had made him. No one had forced his clothes off, or pushed him down, or pressed into him with a need so urgent it stripped the air from the room.

And yet.

Lando sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers loose in front of him. His body still ached, faintly, but the soreness was almost beside the point. It was the shape of it that stayed — the memory of weight, of pressure, of hips pounding hard enough to bruise. The way Carlos had gripped his waist. The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way Lando had let it happen.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing carefully. He didn’t regret it. Not really. If anything, the decision had come too easily. The moment they’d explained what was happening, what was needed — what Carlos needed — something inside him had gone very still, very certain. There’d been no fear. No hesitation. Only the soft, stunned ache of finally being allowed close, even if it was for the worst reason in the world.

But it hadn’t been like he imagined.

He’d pictured it once or twice, stupidly — in the quiet places his brain went late at night, when he let himself hover near the thought but never touch it. Always with affection, always with want. Never with necessity. Never like this. Not stripped down to the bone, not reduced to the flicker of a signal and the pressure of a body that wasn’t really choosing him at all.

His stomach clenched, sharp and sour. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

He went to the gym. Lost himself in laps, in weights, in the burn of muscle until his legs shook. It didn’t help. He tried the sim rig. Got slower with every run. His phone buzzed — Oscar, then Max, then a media update about the next race — but he didn’t answer. Didn’t have anything to say.

That night, a friend invited him out. Just drinks, no pressure. Lando went, smiled, drank water, nodded in all the right places. He let himself be drawn into laughter, let someone touch his arm, lean in close, offer something wordless.

When the offer came — a lift back, a night, no expectations — Lando’s skin went cold. He shook his head, made some excuse, left early. Walked home through the narrow streets with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, head down, heart beating too fast. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to want someone. He just… couldn’t.

Not when his body still remembered the weight of Carlos, the rough press of him, the way his mouth had stayed closed. Not when every trace of desire was tangled with the memory of something that had been given, taken, and left unspoken.

He unlocked his door. Stood in the hallway for a long moment, breathing slow.

When he checked his phone, he didn’t know why he expected to see something. There was no reason Carlos would reach out. No reason at all. But there it was.

‘Can we talk?’

For a second, Lando just stared at it, throat tight. His heart kicked hard, once, then settledo Land didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t know if he wanted to be angry, or understanding, or something else he hadn’t let himself name yet.

All he knew was that some part of him was already saying yes.

Even if it shouldn’t.

*~*~*~*~*

Days passed.

He did everything he was supposed to. Training, meetings, media calls. Testing again. He moved through it all like someone wearing a version of himself, every routine reflex perfectly intact — and none of it helping.

The nights were worse.

He didn’t let himself fantasise, not at first. When he closed his eyes and the images came — Lando’s mouth slack, his voice cracking on a moan — he forced them away. Every time. With shame. With discipline. He gritted his teeth, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and reminded himself: it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t him.

It was the patch. A chemical misfire. A system override. That’s what they said. He wasn’t attracted to Lando. He wasn’t curious. Wasn’t gay. Except—

He sat up one night, suddenly, abruptly. Couldn’t remember waking. His heart was pounding. His shirt was damp with sweat. He was hard. The dream had already vanished — or at least most of it had — but the feeling lingered.

Lando.

It had been Lando.

Not on the bed this time. Not under him, not panting, not crying out. Just… there. In Carlos’ kitchen. In his hoodie, hair damp from rain. Smiling at something stupid. And somehow that had undone him. He shoved the covers back and stood, breathing hard. This couldn’t keep happening. He needed something to shift. Some reset to this — whatever this was. Not a hormone loop, not a medical emergency. Just Carlos, alone in his flat, half-hard from nothing, too tired to keep pretending the images weren’t getting stronger.

The worst part wasn’t even the sex.

It was the longing.

The clarity. The fact that now, when he thought of Lando, he didn’t just see his friend. He saw the way Lando arched under him. The narrow dip of his waist. The flushed heat of his neck. The tension in his thighs. The way he looked right before he came — not overwhelmed, not desperate. Just quiet. Like he’d already accepted this was all it was ever going to be. And Carlos hadn’t even said his name.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, breathing slow, trying to will the arousal away. It didn’t work. He tried again the next night. And the next. By the end of the week, he gave up. He let it happen.

Lando’s face. Lando’s voice. Lando’s body opening beneath him with that unbearable patience.

The orgasm came fast — too fast — but he didn’t stop it. Not this time.

He just sat there in the aftermath, heart still racing, and stared down at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. His throat was dry. His chest ached. He didn’t feel ashamed. Not exactly.

Just… undone.

Like whatever wall had held this part of himself at bay was no longer there. Like he’d been living behind something and didn’t even know it.

The guilt came next. Not for jerking off. Not for coming to Lando. For the way he’d used him. For how little he’d let himself see.

Lando had always mattered to him. Always. They were close — good friends. Not best friends, maybe, but still. Always there for each other. Always in touch. Even on different teams, even after everything. Lando was still the first person he messaged when he needed to decompress. Still the one he trusted to be honest with him.

And Carlos had fucked him like he was no one. Like he was just a body. It turned his stomach. The shame wasn’t about sex with a man.

It was about Lando.

What he’d done to him. What he’d taken. How much he’d wanted it. How much he wanted it again. Only this time, not like that. Not just a solution. Not just biology. He wanted something else. Something he couldn’t name. He didn’t even know what it was, only that it had to mean something. That it did mean something.

Carlos lay back down and stared at the ceiling. His throat felt tight. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, only that one thing was clear. He had to talk to Lando. His hand was already reaching for his phone before he could think twice.

‘Can we talk?’

Sent.

*~*~*~*~*

Monaco felt colder than it should in March. The sky was a washed-out grey, thin sun behind high clouds, the kind of early spring day that still clung to winter like a habit. Lando walked the familiar streets with his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, counting his steps without meaning to.

He’d told Carlos he’d come over after lunch. No big conversation, no tension in the text — just a simple, steady ok. But his stomach had been tight ever since. Not with dread. Not even anger.

Just… something else. Something hollow and strange.

He didn’t regret anything. That was the part he kept circling. He’d said yes. He would have said yes a thousand times. There’d been no question, no hesitation, no second thoughts. It was Carlos. That had always been the only answer.

But the way it had happened.

That was harder to hold.

He crossed the street, shoes scuffing softly on the stone. His throat felt tight, his hands cold inside his jacket. It wasn’t that Carlos had been cruel. It wasn’t even that Carlos had been rough — Lando had braced for that, had been ready for it. It was the way Carlos hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t touched him like a person. Just taken what his body needed and then pulled away, silent and shaking, like Lando had been no one at all.

And Lando — God, he hated himself for it — had wanted it to mean something anyway.

He reached the building without fully registering the walk. His hand hovered at the buzzer for a second before pressing. The door unlocked, soft click, and he went up the stairs.

Carlos opened the door before he knocked. For a second, they just looked at each other. Carlos looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, face pale, jaw shadowed with stubble like he hadn’t bothered to shave. There were dark smudges under his eyes. He was barefoot, in sweats and a t-shirt, and his shoulders were drawn tight like he was bracing for a hit.

Lando felt his own chest pull tight.

“Hi,” he said softly.

Carlos stepped back without a word, letting him in.

Inside, the flat was still and cool, the windows cracked open to let in the late winter air. The faint hum of the city came in with it, distant and muffled, like it belonged to another world entirely. Lando hesitated by the door, jacket still on, fingers twitching at his sides. His heart was beating too fast, the pressure of it climbing up his throat until he felt almost sick with it.

They sat — not close, not far. Just awkwardly, like neither of them knew what to do with the space between. The silence pressed in around them, broken only by the faint clink of the radiator settling, the rustle of fabric when Carlos shifted slightly, elbows on his knees. Lando swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt clumsy against the words he had rehearsed a hundred different ways on the way over.

“I said yes.” His voice came out quiet, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the thin line he was trying to walk. “I don’t regret it.” Carlos’ mouth moved, like he was about to interrupt, but Lando lifted a hand, sharp and trembling at once. “Let me say this.”

Carlos went still.

The pause stretched. Lando could hear his own pulse in it. He dug his fingers loosely into the cuff of his sleeve, grounding himself in the tug of fabric, in the press of his nails against skin. He looked down, then up, then away again, unable to settle anywhere.

“I wanted you,” he said, the words scraping out low. “I did. That night, I wanted it so badly I could hardly think straight. And I thought that would be enough. That wanting you, saying yes, would mean I was ready for… all of it.” He exhaled shakily, blinking hard. “But it didn’t feel that way. Not when it was happening. It felt like I was being pushed past something I couldn’t control. Like it was happening to me instead of with me.”

He stopped, breath stalling in his chest, throat tight. It took everything to lift his eyes again, to force himself not to look away. “It felt like I was being assaulted.”

The words hung there, suspended in the soft, sterile air. Not an accusation. Not an attack. Just the bare, hurting truth of it. Carlos inhaled sharply, like something had punched the air out of him.

*~*~*~*~*

The words hit like a crack down his spine. Not loud. Not sharp. But something in Carlos fractured the moment Lando said it.

‘It felt like I was being assaulted.’

His hands were cold. He hadn’t noticed that until now — fingers laced tightly together, knuckles pale, nails bitten short. He unclenched them slowly, breath shaky in his chest.

“I didn’t…” His voice came out rough, thin. He swallowed hard, tried again. “I didn’t know.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up briefly, guarded, sad. He said nothing.

Carlos dragged his palms over his face. He felt raw, hollowed out, like his skin barely fit him. “I was — I wasn’t thinking. I was just trying to get through it. My head was—” He broke off, mouth twisted tight. “I assumed you’d feel the same. That we’d just… do it, and it would be over, and that would be it.”

His stomach turned. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. The room felt too still, the cold from the window cutting through his t-shirt, through his skin.

“I didn’t think about what it would feel like for you.” The words cracked as they left him. “That’s the part I can’t stop replaying — how I didn’t stop to see you, to… to make sure.” His hands scrubbed hard through his hair, tugging until his scalp burned. “I can’t believe I let it get that far. Fuck.”

Lando stayed quiet, watching him, shoulders drawn in, one knee pulled halfway to his chest.

Carlos sat back sharply, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry.” The words felt small, pathetic. “I don’t know how to make that big enough. I’m so—” His chest jolted once, like his body was trying to shake something loose. “I hate that I hurt you.”

He kept waiting for the air to clear, for the pressure inside him to lift. But it hadn’t. Not after that night. Not after the sex. Not after Lando left. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

“I don’t think it worked.” His voice was barely audible now. “The reset.”

Lando stiffened slightly, confusion flickering over his face.

Carlos let out a breath, shaky and bitter. “The doctors cleared me, I know. I know they said the readings were fine. But I…” His mouth twisted. “I can’t stop. It’s like you’re— it’s like you’re under my skin. I keep—” He dragged a hand hard over his jaw, eyes shut tight. “It’s not just physical. It’s everything. You’re—”

He broke off, unable to finish, shame knotting in his throat. When he risked a glance, Lando was staring at him, brows drawn tight, mouth slightly parted, confusion and ache tangled raw across his face.

“I don’t understand,” Lando said softly. “They said you were fine.”

Carlos let out a hoarse, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

He pressed his hands to his face again, trying to steady himself. The room smelled like soap and cold air, like Lando’s jacket, like the trace of everything he shouldn’t still want.

“I was so busy trying to survive it,” Carlos said roughly, “I didn’t realise I was breaking something else at the same time.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then — quietly, almost like it hurt — Lando whispered, “Carlos.”

And Carlos folded in on himself, hands tight in his hair, wishing he could pull his whole stupid, selfish heart out and lay it on the floor, just to prove how wrecked it was by the shape of Lando inside it.

*~*~*~*~*

“Carlos.”

Lando said it again, quieter this time, like maybe just the name could anchor them both. His chest ached with it, full and hot, a sharp press behind his ribs.

Carlos’ hands were still tangled in his hair, head down, shoulders tight as wire. He let out a rough breath — not quite a sob, but it landed heavy, like it wanted to be one. Lando reached out, hesitated, then touched Carlos’ forearm lightly. Just two fingers, the briefest brush. Carlos flinched like the contact had cut him, then went utterly still.

“I’m not angry,” Lando whispered. The words felt half-formed, raw. “I’m— I don’t even know what I am.”

Carlos lifted his head slowly, eyes bloodshot, mouth tight. “You should be.”

Lando’s throat pulled tight. “I’m not.” He dragged in a breath. “But I am… confused.” His voice wavered, small but unflinching. “I was prepared for it to be rough. I wasn’t prepared to feel like you weren’t there at all.”

Carlos let out a small, sharp sound — something between a laugh and a groan — and dragged both hands down his face. “I wasn’t. I was gone. I just wanted it over. And that’s the worst part, because even while it was happening, part of me—” He broke off, pressing the heel of his palm hard to his temple. “Part of me liked it.”

Lando felt the air leave his lungs in one long, shuddering exhale. His fingers twitched, then closed into his own sleeve.

Carlos’ eyes lifted, shining faint with something brittle and devastated. “And now I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The room pressed in around them — the quiet, the late winter light pale against the walls, the cold air curling faintly under the door.

Lando drew his knees up tighter, arms around them. His voice came out small. “They said you were cured.”

“I know.” Carlos laughed softly, hollow. “Me too.”

Silence stretched.

Lando’s pulse thudded in his ears. His skin felt tight, too thin, like anything could break through it. “Carlos…” His voice wavered. “What is this?”

Carlos gave the smallest shake of his head. “I don’t know.” His mouth twisted. “I don’t know who I am right now.”

Lando let out a shaky breath, forehead pressing briefly to his knees. Then, after a moment, he looked up. His voice was hoarse, uncertain, but it held. “I don’t want to be a cure.”

Carlos flinched, eyes shutting hard. His jaw clenched, breath hitching like it hurt to take it in. “I know.”

“And I can’t—” Lando swallowed, throat working. “I can’t go through that again if it’s just need.”

Carlos nodded once, jerky, hands fisting against his thighs. “I know.”

Their eyes met — brief, sharp, like two edges scraping.

Lando’s mouth trembled, then steadied. “If you want to figure this out… I’m here.” He dragged in a breath, shaky but firm. “But not for that.”

Carlos exhaled roughly, his whole body sagging like the fight had drained out of him. His voice came out small. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Lando’s chest pulled tight, unbearably tender. He reached out — just a brush of his fingers again, feather-light — and this time, Carlos caught his hand. For the first time since any of it began, they just sat there.

Not needing. Not taking. Not fixing anything.

Just… there.

In the hush of an early March afternoon, the shape of something wrecked and human and terrifying opening quietly between them.

*~*~*~*~*

He hadn’t let go of Lando’s hand.

Not yet.

They sat like that for longer than made sense — legs folded awkwardly on the sofa, fingers loosely tangled, the late afternoon light thinning against the window. Neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched, fragile but somehow bearable, like both were afraid a single word might collapse it.

Carlos felt the pulse of his own heart in his fingertips, the tremor of it faint where his skin touched Lando’s. His chest was tight, stomach a low, sour knot. The part of him that wanted to pull away — to retreat, to apologise again, to fold in on himself and disappear — sat frozen under something heavier.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how small Lando’s hand felt against his. How warm. How impossibly steady, even now.

Even after everything.

Carlos drew in a breath, shallow and quiet. His throat felt raw, his mouth dry. He hadn’t slept last night, hadn’t eaten properly today, hadn’t known what he would say when Lando arrived — and now here they were, side by side on the too-stiff sofa, Lando’s jumper sleeve brushing his arm, and all he wanted was to ask a hundred impossible questions.

Why did you come?

Why are you still here?

How are you looking at me like that when I—

He swallowed hard, fingers twitching faintly. Lando’s hand shifted, a slight, unconscious movement, and Carlos felt his breath catch. It was almost unbearable, this gentleness — like it scraped at something inside him he hadn’t even known was raw.

He closed his eyes briefly. Dragged a hand through his hair. “You should hate me.”

Lando made a soft, broken sound — almost a laugh, almost a breath. “I don’t.”

Carlos let out something that was half exhale, half tremor. His throat tightened, his head bowed low.

He didn’t know how to explain the chaos inside him, the snarl of want and shame and confusion that had only gotten louder since that night. The way the craving had changed — no longer a simple, desperate physical loop, but something deeper, sharper, more terrifying.

It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just the patch.

It was Lando.

He could feel it now, in the soft press of fingers, in the quiet rise and fall of Lando’s breath beside him. In the way the memory of Lando’s mouth, Lando’s body, Lando’s voice wasn’t leaving him — it was rooting deeper, threading through every part of him, lighting up nerves that had never been touched before.

And it was unbearable.

“I’m scared,” Carlos whispered. The words felt like they scraped his throat on the way out. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Lando’s thumb moved — the smallest shift, a faint, instinctive brush across Carlos’ skin. Carlos almost flinched at the softness of it.

He let out a shaky breath. His chest felt too full. His body too hot, too cold. His brain tripping over itself, unable to untangle the flood of want, want, want from the bone-deep shame of knowing how much he’d already broken.

“I want to—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I want to fix this.”

Lando’s voice came quiet, almost cautious. “We don’t even know what this is.”

Carlos let out a small, breathless laugh — wrecked and helpless. “Yeah.” He dragged a hand down his face, trembling faintly. “Yeah, I know.”

He wanted to pull away. Wanted to hold on. Wanted to ask Lando to stay. Wanted to tell him to run. Mostly, he just wanted to stop feeling like his whole body was a raw nerve, tuned to one impossible, unbearable frequency: Lando’s skin, Lando’s breath, Lando’s heartbeat under his palm.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. For now, it was enough that Lando was still here. And that Carlos, for all his confusion, for all his guilt, didn’t want to let go.

*~*~*~*~*

He didn’t know why he stayed.

Carlos hadn’t asked. Lando hadn’t offered. They just… didn’t move.

The sky outside dimmed, the light in the flat turning thin and blue, then slipping into soft grey. Lando sat on the edge of the sofa, hands tucked between his knees, watching the lines of Carlos’ shoulders curve forward as he braced his elbows on the table, head bowed low.

The air between them felt heavy — not angry, not sharp, just… worn through.

After a while, Carlos stood. Lando’s chest tightened. For a second, he thought maybe Carlos was going to tell him to go. That the moment was over, whatever they’d needed to say already bled out. But Carlos just drifted into the kitchen, quiet and automatic, opening cupboards, pulling things down without looking.

Lando followed without thinking. He didn’t speak. Just leaned against the counter, watching as Carlos fumbled through jars and plates, hands a little too fast, a little too tense. When Carlos couldn’t open a jar, Lando reached over, took it gently, and cracked the lid.

Their eyes met, just briefly. Enough for Lando to feel something sharp catch in his chest.

They ate at the counter — if you could call it eating. Small pieces of bread, cheese, olives, fruit Carlos probably didn’t even know was in the fridge. Lando’s stomach turned a little with each bite, not from the food but from the knot still pulled tight inside him, like his whole body was waiting for something he didn’t have a name for.

Carlos moved like a ghost, silent, face drawn, eyes flicking away every time Lando tried to meet them.

When the food was gone, when the air in the room felt thinner, when Lando thought maybe this was the part where they would break apart and pretend none of it had happened — Carlos turned to the sink, bracing both hands on the edge, his head bent, shoulders shaking just slightly with each breath.

Lando watched his reflection in the dark window, saw the pale cut of his jaw, the too-tight line of his mouth. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

He took a slow step forward. Not close. Not touching. Just… close enough.

Carlos’ voice, when it came, was so quiet Lando almost didn’t hear it.

“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

Lando felt the words hit low, deep, like a stone dropped into water. His breath caught, his hands curling lightly at his sides.

Carlos’ head bowed lower. “It’s not just the patch.” His voice was hoarse, cracking faintly at the edges. “It’s not going away.”

Lando’s throat felt tight, mouth dry. His chest hurt — a slow, blooming ache, like something old and buried shifting under his ribs.

He swallowed hard. And before he could think better of it, before he could fold the words back down where they belonged, he said softly, “I don’t know how to stop either.”

The silence stretched. Carlos’ head dropped lower, his shoulders caving in like the admission had cracked something open inside him.

Lando stayed still. His hands itched to reach out, but he didn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

Outside, the winter sky bled into night. Inside, they stood in the hush of a flat gone dim and cold, two people undone by something neither had meant to carry this far, breathing in the weight of everything they weren’t ready to name.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos stood by the window, one hand pressed lightly to the cold glass, the other hanging uselessly by his side. Below, the streetlights shimmered faintly on the wet pavement, cars passing in occasional murmurs. He could hear Lando moving quietly behind him — the faint shift of fabric, the soft scrape of a zipper, the muffled thud of trainers pulled on without rush.

He was leaving.

Of course he was. It was late. It had been too much.

Carlos dragged in a slow breath, eyes closing. He tried to tell himself it was fine. That this was what was supposed to happen. That Lando had already given too much.

But something in his chest clenched hard.

When he turned, Lando was by the door, jacket half on, curls mussed from where his fingers had raked through them too many times. His eyes flicked up, met Carlos’ — cautious, soft, like they were both waiting for the right script to appear.

Carlos opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“Stay,” he said quietly.

Lando’s shoulders twitched faintly, a flicker of something across his face — surprise, hesitation, something Carlos couldn’t read.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Carlos added quickly, voice rough with nerves. “You can have the bed. Or — I mean, you can — whatever you want. You don’t have to—” He stopped, exhaled, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I just… don’t want you to go yet.”

For a second, he thought Lando would shake his head. That he’d mumble something about early meetings, about needing to be anywhere else.

But instead, Lando’s hands fell quietly from his jacket. His mouth curved, small and tired, almost like a sad smile.

“Okay,” Lando said softly.

Carlos felt his chest tighten painfully, heat rushing up his throat. He looked away, blinking hard.

They moved around each other quietly, brushing past in the narrow hallway. Carlos pulled the blankets from the bed, folded them over his arm, tried not to notice the way his hands shook. He set them on the sofa, smoothed them down without thinking. His heart was loud in his ears.

Lando stood in the bedroom doorway, watching.

“Carlos,” he said quietly.

Carlos turned.

Lando’s mouth tugged, barely there. “You don’t have to sleep out here.”

Carlos’ throat closed for a second. He swallowed hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

“I—” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I want to.”

And for the first time, something in Lando’s eyes softened. Not confusion, not wariness — just tired affection, the kind that reached under Carlos’ ribs and left him breathless.

Later, when Lando disappeared into the bathroom and the flat settled back into silence, Carlos stayed on the edge of the sofa with his head in his hands. His heart thudded so hard it felt as if it might shake him apart. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lando walking out, not now, not in the morning, not with both of them pretending this was something that could ever be untangled cleanly.

When the bathroom door clicked open, Lando padded out quietly — curls damp, hoodie sleeves tugged down, feet bare. He paused when he saw Carlos, his expression open, tired, unguarded. And Carlos, without meaning to, smiled. Soft. Small. The kind of smile that belonged to the part of himself he hadn’t known how to show until now.

“Good night,” Lando said, voice faint.

“Good night,” Carlos murmured back. His chest ached with it.

And for the first time in days — maybe weeks — he let himself hope that this was something they might not break.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat was quiet in the morning.

Pale light pushed in through the edges of the curtains, cool and grey, the kind of washed-out March morning that felt like it couldn’t quite commit to spring. Lando lay still under the blanket, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hush of the rooms beyond.

He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep. Not quickly. Not deeply.

He remembered brushing his teeth with a hand that wouldn’t quite stop trembling, pulling his hoodie back on, curling onto the edge of Carlos’ bed like it wasn’t a place his body still remembered too sharply. He remembered hearing soft sounds from the living room — the shift of blankets, the low creak of the sofa, a restless breath muffled through the wall.

He’d expected to feel numb.

Instead, he felt… raw. Quietly scraped clean, like all the sharp edges inside him had been sanded down to something tender and exposed.

The bed smelled like Carlos. Not overwhelming, just faint — shampoo, soap, the lingering trace of his skin on the sheets. Lando pressed his hands lightly to his own chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his jumper, and tried not to feel too much about it.

He wasn’t here to make this worse. He was here because Carlos had asked. Because Carlos hadn’t needed something from his body, hadn’t needed him as a fix or a release or a desperate biological answer. He’d just… wanted him near.

Lando let out a soft breath, shutting his eyes briefly against the sting behind them.

When he finally slipped out of bed, the flat was still hushed. He padded barefoot to the living room, the floor cool under his feet, sleeves pulled down over his hands.

Carlos was awake. He was curled awkwardly on the sofa, a blanket half-tangled around him, one arm draped over his eyes, dark hair sticking up in crushed waves. He looked exhausted, wrecked in a way that seemed to sink into his bones. When Lando’s footsteps paused, he stirred and lifted his head to look up.For a second, neither of them said anything.

Lando shifted, arms crossing lightly over his chest, mouth tugging faintly, not quite a smile. “Morning.” His voice came out quiet, rough at the edges.

Carlos huffed out a breath, dragging his arm down slowly. “Hey.”

Another small silence fell. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… there.

Lando hesitated, then padded into the kitchen, barefoot shuffle, soft clink of glasses. Water. Coffee. Something to do with his hands. When he turned, Carlos was watching him — eyes tired, mouth soft, something almost like wonder hovering faint in his face.

Lando’s chest pulled tight, warmth flickering through him in a way that confused the hell out of him. He didn’t know what any of this was. He didn’t know where it was going. But for the first time since that night, it didn’t feel like he was bracing to break.

It just felt like standing in a kitchen with someone he’d trusted for years, heart loud in his chest, trying to figure out where to begin.

*~*~*~*~*

He watched Lando move through the kitchen like he belonged there.

Not loudly. Not casually, either — not like this was normal, like they did this every weekend. Just quiet, barefoot, sleeves half over his hands, hair flattened awkwardly from sleep, soft in a way that scraped at something tender and unsteady under Carlos’ ribs.

Carlos hadn’t meant to stay awake. He’d tried.

But the moment the flat fell still last night, his body locked back into that restless hum — not the drug this time, not the imprint, just… Lando. The knowledge of him. His breathing in the other room. The fact of him here, folded under Carlos’ blanket, in Carlos’ bed, when Carlos had no fucking idea how to live with the things inside his own chest anymore.

He lay on the sofa all night, eyes open to the dark, feeling every inch of it.

And now, in the pale hush of morning, Lando turned — hands wrapped lightly around a glass, eyes soft, cautious, flicking up to meet his across the room.

“Morning,” Lando said, voice rough, mouth twitching in something that almost could’ve been a smile.

Carlos felt his chest pull tight.

He dragged his arm down from over his face, fingers raking tiredly through his hair. “Hey.”

His voice was worse than he expected — dry, scraped raw, like the weight of the last few days had dragged itself down his throat and left its mark.

He watched Lando hesitate, shift, pad quietly back and forth, fingertips trailing over the counter edge like he needed something to steady himself. Carlos wanted to say sit, wanted to say come here, wanted to say don’t leave yet — but his mouth stayed closed, tongue thick with too many things and no idea which to let through first.

He was scared of himself.

Not just of what he wanted, but of what he’d already taken. Of the way his body had reacted without his permission, and worse, of the way it still reacted now — no drug, no imprint, no excuse. Just the bare, painful truth of Lando in his space. And all the ways Carlos still ached for him.

His throat worked as he swallowed, trying to pull in a breath that didn’t tremble. He should apologise again. He should explain more, somehow. He should tell Lando that the wanting hadn’t gone, that it had settled deeper, curling into places Carlos hadn’t even known were soft.

But Lando turned just then, eyes flicking back to his, tired and wary and open all at once, and Carlos felt everything in him lurch. He closed his eyes for half a second, exhaled through his nose, and told himself:

Don’t ruin this.

Don’t ruin him.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat felt too quiet when he got back.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed, but the hollow sort that pressed at his ears, reminding him that he was alone. He dropped his bag by the door and stood there for a beat too long, staring at the dark window opposite, his own faint reflection caught in the glass.

He moved through the motions anyway — shoes off, hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, phone plugged in on the counter. The city outside was low and steady, the soft hum of traffic, the occasional shout carrying up from the street. Familiar. Ordinary. But none of it settled him. He brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, stared down at the sink until the sting in his eyes eased. He was tired, though not the kind that sleep fixed. His body felt heavy, his chest scraped raw.

When he finally made it to bed, the sheets smelled faintly of laundry powder and the open balcony door. Not Carlos. The difference hit him like a small, stupid punch. He turned over, pressing his face into the pillow as if he could smother the thought, but it wouldn’t shift.

He’d expected to feel worse after staying. Or better. Something sharper, clearer. But instead it was both at once — the raw ache of remembering, tangled with a warmth he couldn’t quite stop from breaking through. Because Carlos had asked him to stay. Had wanted him there, not for his body this time, not to burn through the illness like before, but just… near. Close enough that silence didn’t swallow the both of them whole.

Lando curled onto his side, phone in hand, screen glow soft in the dark. His thumb hovered over the messages. He typed out “did you sleep?” then erased it. Typed “thanks for last night” and erased that too. He scrolled back through old conversations instead — voice notes, half-stupid memes, snapshots of years where Carlos had always been there in some shape or another.

The weight in his chest tightened. He wanted to believe this meant something. That it wasn’t just guilt, or habit, or loneliness pulling Carlos toward him. That maybe, just maybe, Carlos needed him. Wanted him.

But the memory of that night was still there, lodged like glass. He closed his eyes against it, phone slipping from his hand onto the duvet.

Love didn’t care. It stayed, no matter how badly it hurt.

*~*~*~*~*

The road wound along the coast, sunlight glinting low off the water, the steady push and pull of the pedals keeping Carlos’ body in rhythm. He should have felt good — stronger, finally, the heaviness of illness lifted, lungs pulling in the sharp bite of salt air without catching. Teto was a few lengths ahead, calling something back about the gradient, and Ollie’s laugh carried through the wind.

Carlos stayed tucked behind them, head down, legs churning, letting their voices blur into the thrum of tyres on tarmac. It was easier to let the sound wash over him than to join in. His mind kept slipping, anyway.

Lando.

The shape of him in Carlos’ flat, hair a mess from sleep, voice rough in the morning light. The quiet weight of his presence, not demanding, not rushing, just there. The way he’d said goodnight the night before, curling onto the edge of Carlos’ bed like it was the most natural thing, like trust was something he could still give freely even after everything Carlos had taken.

Carlos pushed harder on the pedals, thighs burning with the effort. He told himself to focus — on the road, on the next climb, on the salt stinging the back of his throat. But it was useless. Every turn brought Lando back. The sound of his laugh. The stubborn crease between his brows when he was holding something in. The way his voice had cracked when he’d said, It felt like I was being assaulted. The memory of that hurt still cut deep — but somehow what sat heavier was everything that had come after. That Lando had still come over. Had still stayed.

Carlos swallowed hard, chest tight with more than exertion. Attraction he could explain away, at least to himself. He’d noticed Lando’s mouth, the way his jumper slipped loose on his shoulders, the warmth of his body pressed into Carlos’ sheets. He could admit, finally, that he wanted him. Wanted him badly. But this — this ache that pressed deeper, the tug that reached past want into something softer, heavier — this was different.

He fell back a little on the climb, letting Teto and Ollie pull ahead, their chatter fading into the wind. His pulse thundered in his ears, part exertion, part something else. The realisation he’d been circling without wanting to land on it.

He was in love with him.

Carlos blew out a breath, sharp and unsteady, lifting off the saddle to power through the final stretch. It felt like admitting it out loud, even just to himself, had shifted something in his chest. Scary, yes — but also solid. True in a way that left no room for doubt.

At the top, Teto clapped him on the back, teasing about his focus, about dropping behind. Carlos managed a half-smile, shaking his head, pulling in lungfuls of salt air. But inside, the words wouldn’t let go.

He was in love with Lando. And he had no idea what to do with it.

*~*~*~*~*

The knock came soft against the door, just three raps, but Lando felt them in his chest. He froze in the middle of the room, fingers hooked into his sleeves, breath stalled. He’d known Carlos was coming — had read the message, had said yes — but some part of him still hadn’t believed it until now.

He crossed to the door slowly, barefoot on the cool floor, hoodie sleeves tugged low over his hands. When he opened it, Carlos was there. Hair mussed, jaw shadowed, his eyes carrying something Lando couldn’t read.

“Hey,” Lando said, his voice steady but flat. Not cold. Not warm. Just… there.

Carlos nodded once, and Lando stepped back. The air shifted as he entered — the faint salt from the marina seeping in through the window, the hum of traffic below, the rigging from a yacht clinking softly. Ordinary sounds, made sharp by Carlos filling the space between them.

They didn’t speak at first. Lando hovered by the counter, tapping once against the wood before folding his arms tight across his chest. Carlos stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, hands loose at his sides. His eyes flicked briefly to the sofa, to the balcony door, before landing back on Lando.

“I came because I wanted to see you,” Carlos said at last. His voice was quiet, steady in a way that made Lando’s chest ache. “Just you.”

Lando’s pulse jumped. Just you. The words pressed against all the places he’d tried to keep shielded. He stared back, trying to read him, to see if guilt or obligation lurked beneath it. But Carlos’ gaze didn’t waver. Something shifted in Lando’s chest — not relief, not trust, but a hollow ache that still wanted to believe.

“You’re here,” Lando said finally. His chest felt too tight, the words scraping out more like disbelief than greeting.

Carlos nodded, just once. The silence between them stretched, fragile and strange, like the whole room was waiting for something to crack. Lando curled his fingers into his sleeve, grounding himself.

“What for?” he asked quietly. Not hostile, but direct. He wasn’t going to circle back over old wounds — they’d done that already. This was about now. About why Carlos had come here, after everything.

Carlos’ throat worked. “Because I couldn’t stay away.”

The answer hit harder than Lando expected. His mouth twitched, but no smile came. He didn’t want to offer Carlos anything easy, not when his own chest still carried the weight of that night. He forced himself to meet his eyes again, steady.

“Don’t tell me it’s just guilt,” Lando murmured. “I can’t do that again.”

Carlos flinched faintly, chest pulling in, but he didn’t deny it. Lando’s heart twisted. He shifted his weight against the counter, one bare foot curling over the other, body restless with the need to keep moving.

“It was… a lot,” he admitted, voice low. “I knew what it was going to be. I agreed. But it wasn’t—” He broke off, pressing his tongue briefly against his cheek, eyes flicking to the balcony before he forced them back. “It wasn’t good, Carlos. Not for me.”

The words came out softer than he expected, but they hung between them like stone. Not an attack. Not even blame. Just the truth.

Carlos breathed in sharply, shoulders tightening. “I know,” he said, quiet.

Lando rubbed his palm flat against the counter once, twice, like he was smoothing out a crease that wouldn’t leave. “You were different,” he went on, steadier now. “It didn’t feel like you were really with me. Just… fighting something inside you. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Carlos’ jaw flexed, but he stayed still, his gaze locked on Lando.

Lando swallowed, throat dry. “I told myself it was fine. Because I said yes. And it was, technically. But I went home that night and—” He stopped, breath catching, shoulders pressing back against the counter as though it could hold him upright. “It didn’t feel fine.”

Silence filled the room again, heavier than before. Lando stared down at his sleeves, twisting the fabric between his fingers. His chest felt tight, caught between ache and hope, wanting to trust Carlos’ presence here, wanting to believe it meant more than guilt.

He lifted his eyes again, steady despite the sting behind them. “If you’re here because you still need me like that… I can’t. Not again.” His voice wavered, but the words stayed firm. “If you’re here for me— then maybe we can talk.”

Carlos’ face flickered — something sharp, pained, wrecked — and for the first time since Lando had opened the door, he let himself believe Carlos might mean it. The air seemed to thicken between them, silence pressing in, as if the room itself were waiting. Lando felt the tight pull in his chest, the ache of wanting to know, afraid to know, holding himself still while Carlos searched for words.

Carlos let the silence stretch before he spoke. His voice was even, deliberate, but Lando heard the raw edge underneath. “I know. I felt it too. That it wasn’t… right. Not the way it should have been.”

The words landed in Lando’s chest, sharp and uneven. His jaw tightened, mouth pressing into a thin line as he stared at Carlos. He wanted to believe him. Needed to. But part of him still flinched at the memory, at how wrong it had felt.

Carlos’ eyes flickered, searching for words that didn’t sound like excuses. “I hated it. Hated that it was you, and it was like that.”

Lando’s stomach twisted. He kept his gaze steady, weighing the truth of it, trying to measure it against the ache still lodged inside him. His throat felt dry, his voice low when it finally came. “I kept replaying it after, and I felt like I’d been used. Even though I knew I’d said yes.”

He dragged his thumb over the edge of the counter, restless, eyes darting away for a second before forcing them back to Carlos. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want you. I did. I wanted you more than I can explain. But the way it happened…” His chest tightened, the words sticking until he pushed them out. “It felt like you weren’t really there with me. Like you just needed to get it over with.”

The memory still scraped at him — the weight of Carlos pressing down, thrusts sharp and frantic, no words, no tenderness. He swallowed hard, the crease between his brows deepening. “I kept replaying it after. Trying to figure out why it didn’t feel right. And the only thing I could think was — you didn’t actually want me. Not me. Just… the act.”

Silence stretched, pressing in from the walls. Lando’s thumb moved against the counter again, fidgeting, grounding himself in the roughness of the wood. His chest felt heavy, but he made himself keep going. “I thought—even if it hurt, even if it was messy—it would feel like we were closer. But it didn’t. It felt like you were somewhere else the whole time. And that’s what stayed with me.”

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head once, curls brushing his forehead. “I don’t regret saying yes. I’d never regret it. But I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”

Across from him, Carlos’ mouth parted, then closed again. Lando watched his chest rise on a sharp breath, like the words had cut through him. His eyes went darker, stricken. “Lando…” Carlos’ voice cracked rough around the edges. He scrubbed a hand down his jaw, shaking his head as though the thought itself hurt. “I never wanted to hurt you. Dios mío…” His knuckles pressed hard against the counter. “The thought that I made you feel like that—like I wasn’t even there—” He broke off, his whole body tight with it. “I was there. But not how you needed me. And that’s… that’s on me.”

Lando stared at him, chest aching, searching for something solid in Carlos’ face and finding only regret. He saw the way Carlos’ jaw worked, the faint tremor in his hands. Saw him look down at the counter, fingers clenching so tight the knuckles paled.

“You did that for me,” Carlos said finally, voice raw and low. “And I made you feel… like that.” His cheek twitched, his fist tightening. “I should have seen. I should have stopped. Instead I hurt you. My friend.”

The word landed in Lando’s chest like a weight. Friend. It hollowed something out inside him, even though he knew it was true, even though he knew Carlos meant it as more than just that. The sound of it twisted through him, sharp and tender all at once.

Carlos’ breath left him in a harsh rush, shoulders straining against the stillness. He stayed like that, tense, eyes fixed down. When he finally looked back up, Lando caught the flicker in his gaze — desperate, searching, as though he was begging for the smallest sign that everything wasn’t ruined. His chest rose shallow, braced like he was waiting for a blow.

Lando shifted, shoulders curling slightly in, dragging a hand through his hair, curls catching between his fingers before falling loose again. He swallowed hard. “I don’t… I don’t think you meant to hurt me,” he said at last, voice softer, quieter. “But it still ended up that way.” The admission cost him something, but it felt true. He held Carlos’ eyes, even as his own throat tightened. “I don’t want you thinking I regret saying yes, though. I just thought it’d be different.”

Carlos’ hand stayed rigid on the counter, but Lando saw the slump in his shoulders, the way some of the fight seemed to drain out of him. He looked back at Lando like he was trying to find the words, and failing every time.

Finally, his voice broke through, low and rough. “I don’t want that to be the only thing between us. Not… not the memory you carry of me.” His throat moved as he swallowed, eyes almost pleading. “If you’ll let me, I want to try again. Slower. Careful. The way you deserved the first time.” His jaw tensed, his gaze steady but unguarded now. “Not because I think I can erase what I did. But because I need you to know—I can be better with you.”

The words slammed into Lando, knocking the air from his lungs. His hands pressed harder against the counter, nails biting faintly through his sleeves. His heart thudded fast, uneven. He wanted to answer, to trust, to believe. But all he could do for a moment was stand there in the quiet, chest torn open by the hope of it, by the terrifying possibility that Carlos meant every word.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos breathed out slowly, chest tight, his eyes flicking down to the floor before dragging themselves back up to Lando’s. The air felt too thin between them, like there wasn’t enough of it to carry everything he needed to say.

“I didn’t come back just because I felt bad,” he began, his voice low and rough. The words stuck on his tongue, clumsy with weight. “I mean—I do. I do feel bad. But that’s not why I’m here.”

His lips pressed together, the pressure grounding him for a beat before he forced himself to go on. The next part wasn’t easy. Every line of it scraped at something tender inside his chest. “I thought once it was over—once I was cured—that whatever was making me feel like that would go away. The… the wanting you. I thought it was just biology. Just the situation.” He gave the smallest shake of his head, frustrated at himself. “But it didn’t go away.”

His brow furrowed, the confession pulling at muscles he hadn’t realised were so tight. His expression pinched with the honesty of it, like every word cost him something. “It got worse. Or clearer. I don’t know. I started thinking about you all the time. Not just the sex. You. Us. Things I didn’t let myself think about before because I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That I wasn’t that kind of person.”

He glanced down again, unable to hold Lando’s eyes for a second longer, before forcing himself to look back. His voice was quieter now, softer in its truth. “But I was. I am. I just didn’t know it until you… until you did that for me. And then I couldn’t stop knowing it.”

Carlos stayed rooted to the spot, caught between the ache to reach out and the fear of moving too fast. Close, but not touching. He let his eyes search Lando’s face, looking for permission, for a flicker of understanding. His words came careful, fragile, like they might collapse if he pushed too hard. “I don’t want to rush you. But I’d like to be close to you again. Not because I have to. Not because of anything except… I want to. You.”

His gaze dipped briefly, shy in a way he wasn’t used to, then steadied as he looked back up. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing faintly as if his body didn’t know what to do with them. “If you let me, I’ll go slow. I’ll listen.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “And if you’re not sure, or you want to stop at any point, I’ll stop. I promise.”

The faintest, almost apologetic smile pulled at his mouth, weary but real. “I’m not trying to fix everything tonight. I just… I want to hold you, if you’ll let me.”

For a long moment, Lando didn’t answer. The silence stretched taut, but not empty — full of something Carlos couldn’t quite name. Lando stood still and quiet, gaze pinned to his face as though he was reading not just the words but the cracks in between them. There was no panic there, no recoil, only a depth of thought that seemed far older than his years. His brow furrowed faintly, not with hesitation but with the weight of whatever he was carrying.

Carlos’ heart hammered, each beat sharp enough to hurt. He kept himself steady, fighting the urge to fill the silence with more words, more explanations, anything that might make this easier.

And then Lando stepped forward.

The movement was quiet, certain, almost ordinary — but to Carlos it felt monumental. Lando’s hand lifted, brushing lightly against his wrist first, tentative, before curling around it in a loose, sure hold. Warmth seeped through Carlos’ skin, grounding him. His breath caught.

Lando looked up, met his eyes. Held them. It was a searching gaze, one that seemed to ask and answer in the same breath. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he leaned in, tilting his head until their foreheads touched. The gentlest press, barely more than shared air, but it broke Carlos open. His breath stumbled, catching in his throat at the tenderness of it.

He froze, not from fear but from reverence. Afraid to move, afraid even to breathe too loud in case it shattered. Lando’s hand slid higher, from his wrist up to the centre of his chest, palm spreading over his heart like he wanted to feel every beat.

That was his answer. No need for words. And Carlos understood it completely.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let himself breathe Lando in. The faint scent of his shampoo, the warmth of his skin, something familiar beneath it all — something Carlos now recognised as Lando, not background noise but the centre of his world in this fragile instant.

When he opened his eyes again, Lando was already watching him. His gaze wasn’t nervous, but careful. Measured. Holding himself back in the same way Carlos was. And behind that restraint, Carlos caught the flicker of uncertainty — not fear, not doubt, but the quiet need to see what Carlos would do next.

He didn’t want to rush. Not this time. Not when he knew what it felt like to take too much too quickly, to blur something precious with desperation. He refused to make that mistake again.

So he lifted his hand slowly, giving himself time to breathe, giving Lando time to see. His fingertips brushed along the soft edge of his cheekbone, tracing the faint hollow beneath his eye. Warm skin, the faintest graze of stubble. Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into it, eyelids lowering with a faint, unconscious flutter — the same way he used to when exhaustion caught him in the back of the garage, eyes too heavy to fight.

The sight of it struck Carlos with a quiet ache. This urge to take care of him wasn’t born from obligation, wasn’t tethered to any cure or desperate need. It was just there — simple, overwhelming — because he wanted it. Because he wanted him.

Their noses bumped, clumsy and human, and Lando let out a soft huff of laughter. It loosened something in Carlos’ chest, made his own mouth curve into a smile he hadn’t known was waiting. Then he tilted his head and kissed him.

It was nothing like before. Nothing like the rough press of survival. This was gentle, not hesitant but unhurried — lips pressed together with a softness that made Carlos’ whole body tense and relax at once. He’d kissed plenty of women in his life: hungry kisses, playful ones, messy ones at the back of a club. But never like this. Never with this strange, aching tenderness that felt as if it belonged to another language entirely.

Lando’s mouth moved carefully against his, pliant and warm, answering him with patience instead of urgency. Carlos let it deepen just slightly, his palm sliding to cradle the back of Lando’s neck, thumb brushing the tender skin behind his ear. He felt Lando’s sigh more than he heard it — open-mouthed and low, spilling straight into his chest, ribcage, the parts of himself he hadn’t known were hollow until they filled.

He pulled back just far enough to murmur, voice hushed, “That okay?”

Lando nodded, eyes heavy-lidded, lips pink and parted. “Yeah,” he breathed, low but certain. “That’s… yeah.”

Carlos kissed him again, slower this time, as if pressing the moment into memory so he’d never lose it. When he drew back, Lando didn’t speak. He only caught Carlos’ hand, threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world, and tugged gently toward the bedroom.

Carlos followed without thought. The hallway was dim, their bare feet making soft sounds on the wooden floor. The flat smelled faintly of laundry, soap, the kind of lived-in scent that felt private in a way no hotel or paddock motorhome ever could.

The bedroom door stood open. Lando let go only to flick the lamp on, a golden glow spilling over the space. The light caught in his curls, haloing them, fell soft against the messy duvet and half-folded sheets. The bed wasn’t made properly. Carlos stood still for a moment, taking it in — not disorderly, but personal. A space that felt like stepping into a piece of Lando himself.

“Are you okay?” Lando asked, turning to him. His voice was steady, but his eyes carried something Carlos hadn’t seen before — not fear, but care.

Carlos nodded once. “Yeah.” His voice was low, rougher than he meant. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this: the strange calm in his chest, the sense of rightness that settled in despite his nerves.

Lando reached for his shirt first. He tugged it over his head with an easy movement, baring a frame leaner than Carlos remembered — narrow waist, smooth skin over firm muscle, the faint lines dipping into his hips. The shirt hit the floor without ceremony. He didn’t pose, didn’t smirk, just stood there, open, watching. Waiting.

Carlos stepped in, slow but sure, his hands finding the warm span of Lando’s sides. He traced up over ribs, feeling the quiet hitch of breath beneath his thumbs. Their mouths found each other again, a kiss that deepened as Carlos eased him backward. Every step felt surreal — his second time kissing a man, his second time touching one like this. But the first had been chaos, a body’s betrayal; this was choice, clarity, desire that was his alone.

When Lando’s legs hit the edge of the mattress, Carlos broke the kiss, close enough that their breaths mingled. He looked at him — flushed, open, waiting — and something fierce and tender clenched low in his stomach.

“Lie down,” he murmured, his voice steady but edged with want.

*~*~*~*~*

The words went straight through Lando, leaving his chest tight. There was no sharpness in them, no command, just certainty — an offering wrapped in need. He nodded before he even thought about it, wordless, and crawled back onto the bed, settling in the centre. His heart thudded unsteadily against his ribs, hair falling messily across his forehead, chest rising and falling quicker than he meant it to. The mattress dipped as Carlos followed, his weight settling between Lando’s parted thighs. The warmth of his hands moved slowly, reverently, over Lando’s skin — the firm curve of his thighs, the slope of his stomach, the soft patch just above the waistband of his trousers. Every touch made Lando’s pulse quicken. He couldn’t stop his nod when Carlos looked up at him again, this time sharper, more urgent, like yes, please.

The sound of his trousers being undone filled the quiet, and then they were sliding down, leaving him exposed. Heat rushed to his face at the sight of Carlos’ gaze catching there, the way his lips parted almost unconsciously. Lando’s cock was already half-hard, embarrassing and impossible to hide, and when Carlos leaned down to press a kiss to his stomach, then lower, Lando’s hips twitched helplessly upward. The first brush of lips against the head of his cock made his breath stutter in his throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice catching as if it had been dragged out of him. “Yeah.”

Carlos’ mouth curved faintly against him, and then the heat of it surrounded him — slow, careful, soft. Lando’s back arched before he could stop it, the sensation so overwhelming he could only moan. Fingers trailed lower between his thighs, slick now, teasing, probing at his entrance, and the faint vibration of Carlos murmuring against his skin made his body jolt. When the first finger eased inside him, Lando let out a broken sound, hips shifting, trying to take it in.

“Carlos…” The name came out a gasp, high and shaky. His whole body felt like it was trembling apart, his chest tight, his breath spilling out in short bursts.

Carlos didn’t rush. Every movement of his mouth and hand was deliberate, unhurried, as if he were paying attention to nothing else but Lando. His lips sealed gently around the head of his cock, tongue pressing against the sensitive underside, and Lando’s thighs trembled, his fingers clawing weakly at the sheets for something to hold on to. A moment later the finger inside him curled, testing, stretching, and the sound Lando made was unguarded, raw, ripped straight from his chest.

He felt Carlos’ eyes on him briefly, and it was unbearable — the way he was seen, the way his mouth hung open, brows drawn tight, every breath shallow. Then Carlos pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low and steady, the words brushing hot against Lando’s cock.

“You’re doing so well. Let me in, cariño… just like that.”

Another finger joined the first, slow, careful, the stretch sharper now, though not cruel. Carlos’ mouth left him only long enough to press soft kisses to the base of his cock, to the skin of his thigh, grounding him. The slick, wet sounds filled the room, obscene in the hush. Lando forced himself to breathe through it, legs shifting, opening wider without meaning to.

“Carlos…” His own voice was wrecked, needy.

“I’ve got you,” Carlos murmured back, his tone so certain that it sent a shiver through him. His mouth closed around Lando’s cock again, deeper this time, his throat humming low as his fingers scissored gently, pressing further inside with every pass.

Lando cried out, the sound torn from somewhere deep, not loud but full, unrestrained. His hand found Carlos’ shoulder blindly, gripping hard, needing to anchor himself. His hips rocked up, chasing the heat of his mouth, and Carlos let him, adjusting, taking more of him in. Pleasure coiled hard and fast in his stomach, every nerve alight, his thighs trembling against Carlos’ palms.

“Gonna come,” he whispered, desperate. “Carlos—please—fuck, don’t stop—”

And Carlos didn’t. He sucked harder, tongue working insistently along the underside, fingers still stretching, stroking inside him in rhythm. The pressure became unbearable — sharp, overwhelming — until it broke. Lando gasped, his whole body jerking as orgasm tore through him, his cock twitching hard in Carlos’ mouth. The moan that left him was long, broken, his hand fisting in the sheets as he spilled.

He dimly registered Carlos swallowing, lips still brushing his skin as his body shuddered through the last of it. His muscles quivered, chest heaving, head tipped back against the pillows. Carlos’ fingers slipped out carefully, gentle, easing the burn as the intensity ebbed.

When Lando finally blinked his eyes open, Carlos was above him, watching. He felt the cool air on his flushed skin, the way his arms had fallen lax at his sides. He was spread out, undone, and yet… safe. His body still hummed, oversensitive, but his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with release.

Carlos had stayed with him. Careful. Patient. Wanting him. And that, more than anything else, made Lando’s heart race all over again.

Lando nodded, breath still shaky, and shifted back into the centre of the bed. His limbs felt loose but charged, his chest rising too quickly as if his body couldn’t keep up with what was happening. He caught Carlos’ eye for a second, then flicked his gaze toward the headboard. “Would you—” His voice caught. “There’s a pillow.”

Carlos followed the direction without hesitation. Lando lifted his hips to help as Carlos slipped the pillow beneath him, and when he settled again the new angle made his body open in a way that felt… better. Easier. He breathed through it, steadying himself, then let his eyes flutter shut.

“Better?” Carlos murmured.

“Yeah,” Lando said softly. “Makes it easier. And deeper.”

It wasn’t teasing, not suggestive—just simple honesty. He trusted Carlos to understand. And when Carlos looked back at him, something in his expression made Lando’s chest tighten.

The faint sound of foil tore through the hush. Lando watched, more present now, less dazed, his eyes following the careful way Carlos rolled the condom on. His movements were steady, deliberate, as if every small step mattered. Lando felt the burn of anticipation in his stomach.

Then Carlos was between his thighs again, smoothing his palms over the skin there, grounding him. Instead of rushing, he leaned down to kiss him first. Slow. Anchoring. His hand cupped Lando’s jaw, and the kiss tasted like warmth and steadiness, like this wasn’t about finishing but about being with.

Lando let himself melt into it, kissing back without hesitation, legs looping loosely around Carlos’ waist. The heat of him pressed close, skin against skin, and it felt nothing like before. No desperation. No blur. Just closeness. Want.

When Carlos reached down to line himself up, Lando’s breath caught, stuttering sharp in his throat. Carlos’ lips brushed his as he whispered, “You okay?”

Lando nodded quickly, voice low, certain. “Yeah. Come on.”

The first push was slow. Not a tormenting tease, but careful, measured. There was the sharp stretch at first, that moment where his body resisted, then yielded. Lando’s fingers dug into Carlos’ shoulders, holding on.

Heat bloomed through him as Carlos groaned low in his throat, eyes falling shut. Lando shuddered at the sound. He was so full already, his body adjusting inch by inch as Carlos pressed deeper. He kept kissing him through it, mouth open and pliant, chasing breath and reassurance in the same movement.

“Fuck,” Carlos whispered raggedly against his cheek. “You feel—god, you feel incredible.”

Lando couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find words through the sharp ache of being stretched and the overwhelming rush of pleasure that followed right behind it. He just nodded, brushing a curl off Carlos’ damp forehead with trembling fingers. The small, intimate touch was all he had to give in return, but it felt important.

When Carlos finally bottomed out, hips flush, Lando’s body went slack with relief, heat flooding everywhere. He didn’t want him to move yet. Just to stay there, heavy and steady inside him, kissing him again and again until his lips were swollen and his chest ached from the closeness.

This was nothing like before. No coldness, no blur of survival. This was sharp in its clarity, all his nerves alive. It was good—so good—every inch of his body lit up with the rightness of it, and with the knowledge that Carlos was here because he wanted to be, because he wanted him.

They rested together, foreheads touching, both breathing shallow. Carlos’ weight was there but never crushing, held up by careful arms. When his lips brushed Lando’s again, feather-light, Lando met him halfway. Slow, unhurried. Like they could take all the time in the world.

Then Carlos moved.

The withdrawal was gentle, almost unbearable in its slowness, leaving Lando clenching around him, then filled again with the smooth, deliberate slide forward. Lando gasped softly, his hand moving to the back of Carlos’ neck, fingers curling in the curls there. His other hand traced down Carlos’ arm, needing the contact, the tether.

“You’re okay?” Carlos whispered.

“Yeah,” Lando murmured, rough, breathless. “Keep going.”

And he did. The rhythm stayed careful, unhurried, each thrust watched and measured. Lando could feel Carlos’ attention on him—on the way his lips parted when it went deeper, the way his thighs shifted to spread wider, the way the soft gasps kept falling from his mouth. It was overwhelming, being seen like this, but it was also grounding. Like every movement stitched them closer together.

This was connection. Not mechanics. Not biology. A thread binding him to Carlos, alive and real, drawn tighter with every slow grind of their hips.

“You feel so good,” Carlos whispered, his mouth wandering to Lando’s jaw, his throat, pressing kisses wherever he could reach. “So fucking good.”

Lando let out a shuddering breath, chest rising hard. His hands slid over Carlos’ back now, pressing into muscle, tracing shoulder blades, holding on. His thighs tightened faintly around his hips, his eyes fluttering shut with each deliberate thrust.

Carlos started going deeper, pulling back further before pressing in again with a soft grind that hit just right, making Lando gasp. His body arched, head tipping back into the pillow.

Carlos kissed along his cheek, his temple, the words warm against his skin. “Tell me if you want anything.”

Lando’s voice came rough, cracked through with pleasure. “Just don’t stop.”

And he meant it with everything he had. The words left him raw, stripped down — but in Carlos’ ears they landed like a gift, a permission too precious to ignore.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos brushed his nose softly against Lando’s as his hips kept their slow, steady rhythm. Each roll of his body sank him deeper, more certain, the movement no longer tentative but measured, deliberate. He felt Lando yield beneath him—not as weakness, never that, but as a quiet surrender. A choice. A body opening and asking for him. The awareness of it struck something fierce inside his chest, something reverent too, like devotion made flesh.

He couldn’t look away. Even as his own breath shortened, even as the warmth between them rose like a tide, he held Lando’s gaze. It was there in his eyes, the trust, the want, the soft rawness that hadn’t been there the first time. That night had been sharp and frantic, survival pressed into skin. This was something else entirely.

Carlos didn’t mean to find the angle. He hadn’t been searching. His hips shifted, his thrust angled slightly different, and suddenly Lando’s body bucked hard beneath him.

The sound that tore from his throat—half gasp, half cry—made Carlos’ own body jolt. His heart hammered, panic and wonder colliding. He froze immediately, holding himself still inside him. “Lando?”

Lando couldn’t answer. His mouth hung open, his hands tight at Carlos’ shoulders, and the sound he made was nothing more than a shaky rush of air, like his lungs had forgotten how to work.

Carlos stayed poised above him, skin prickling, waiting. And then Lando’s eyes lifted—wide, glassy, astonished. Not fear. Not pain. A plea. A need.

Carlos swallowed hard. He moved again. Careful, same angle, same depth.

The reaction came fast. Lando let out a desperate sound, low and broken, legs cinching tighter around Carlos’ hips. His spine arched off the mattress, his chest pressed hot against Carlos’ slick skin. Every line of him trembled.

Carlos kissed him before either of them could speak, mouths colliding in something long, slow, grounding. He swallowed the soft, frantic noises Lando made as he began to move again—each thrust careful, deliberate, as if the only thing that mattered now was making Lando feel this way again. Watching him unravel, stroke by stroke.

It was intoxicating. Lando’s breathing came in stuttered bursts, his hands restless, sliding along Carlos’ back, clutching his jaw, pulling him down again and again for another kiss. One of his heels pressed tight into the back of Carlos’ thigh, not urging faster, just needing the anchor.

Carlos pulled back just enough to see him. To really see him. Lando’s mouth was red, parted on shaky breaths, his eyes glassy with pleasure. The sight alone almost undid him. Carlos’ hand slid beneath his thigh, lifting, opening him further, giving him everything he asked for without words.

“You feel incredible,” Carlos whispered, voice breaking low. His chest ached with it. “Every part of you…”

Lando gave a ragged laugh that turned into a moan, eyes shutting tight. “Carlos, I—fuck, I think I’m close.”

Carlos kissed the slick heat of his throat, whispering against his skin. “Let go.”

He thrust deeper now, not faster but surer, hitting the place that made Lando’s breath falter into broken cries. He could feel him trembling, every muscle in his body straining, his voice spilling out in gasps and moans that sounded too honest, too raw for Lando to hide.

Carlos could feel it building in him—the tension, the pull. And then it happened. Lando’s whole body seized, drawn tight, then shattered beneath him.

He came untouched, cock twitching hard between them, release streaking hot across his stomach as his mouth opened on a sound that was barely a word at all. His body jerked through it, caught in wave after wave, trembling under Carlos’ weight.

The sight almost undid him. Carlos’ orgasm threatened to drag him under right then, but he forced himself to stay steady, buried deep, kissing Lando through the shudders. His lips pressed to his throat, his cheek, anywhere he could reach, whispering soft Spanish nonsense—endearments, fragments—just to give him something to cling to.

And Lando clung, faint tremors running through his chest as his breathing fought to settle. His skin glowed hot beneath Carlos’ mouth, damp with sweat, flushed and open, his lashes trembling against his cheeks as if he couldn’t quite find his way back yet.

Carlos stared at him, heart raw, chest caving in with the sheer force of it.

Sated.

That was what it was. Lando lay beneath him, sated and undone, lips parted around shallow breaths, his fingers curled faintly in the sheets. One hand rested against Carlos’ back — not gripping, not demanding, just there. Needing the contact, the closeness, the proof of him.

Carlos thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful. And the way Lando looked back at him — dazed, open, still trembling faintly — told him he felt it too.

*~*~*~*~*

For Lando, the beauty was almost unbearable in how it pressed close, how it filled him everywhere. Carlos stayed deep inside him, his cock filling every inch, and Lando could still feel faint pulses from earlier trembling through his own body. It was almost unbearable in how perfect it felt — wet, hot, snug in a way that made his chest ache with the intimacy of it. Every so often, his muscles fluttered around Carlos, as if refusing to let him go.

He heard the groan rumble out of Carlos, felt it vibrate against his temple when Carlos leaned down and pressed soft kisses there, again and again, like he couldn’t stop himself. Each one made Lando’s stomach twist with warmth.

Then Carlos began to move. Slowly. Not because he was chasing his own release but because he had to—because neither of them could stand still anymore. His hips rolled in smooth, deliberate strokes, not too deep at first, just enough for Lando to feel the slide, the stretch, the way his body welcomed Carlos in again and again. It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t overwhelming. Just a steady heat, a lazy fullness that had Lando humming low in his throat without even meaning to.

“Still good?” Carlos rasped, his voice all rough edges.

Lando managed a nod, eyes still shut, lips parting on a breath. “Yeah. It’s—fuck, it’s really good.”

He felt Carlos’ smile ghost against his cheek before another kiss landed there, then at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re so tight still,” Carlos whispered, almost in awe. “I don’t know how you feel this good after that.”

Lando blinked his eyes open, dazed but certain. “Because it’s you. Feels different with you.”

The look Carlos gave him then pulled the air right out of Lando’s lungs. He didn’t reply—just kissed him, deep and sure, hand cradling his jaw as their mouths moved together. The rhythm of Carlos’ hips deepened in the same breath, each stroke smoother, a little needier. And Lando let him, kissed him back like he was giving him permission to take everything.

Because God, he wanted him to.

It was nothing like that first night. That had been necessity, survival, clinical in its urgency. This was the opposite. Every thrust now was threaded with want, with care, with something that felt so close to love it almost frightened him. Carlos wasn’t just fucking him—he was touching him everywhere, with lips and hands and breath, like he needed Lando whole, body and soul. And Lando gave it. Gave it gladly.

A slight shift in Carlos’ hips changed everything. Pressure caught sharp and perfect inside him, and Lando gasped, legs twitching around his waist, mouth falling open. The surprise pulled a sound from him, not too loud but raw. Carlos froze, eyes snapping to his face.

“Yeah?” he breathed. “Right there?”

All Lando could do was nod, helpless, already clenching around him for more. “Don’t stop. Please. Just—like that.”

And Carlos obeyed.

The bed creaked under them, the rhythm steady and sure, every pass over that spot making Lando jolt and moan. His body wasn’t building to another orgasm—he could feel that clearly now—but it didn’t matter. The pleasure was still sharp, still coursing through him, every nerve alive and burning. What mattered wasn’t release—it was Carlos. The way his eyes locked on him, desperate and reverent all at once. The way he held his hip like he was guiding him through it, like Lando was the most precious thing he’d ever had.

It undid him. Not physically, not again, but deeper.

“You’re—” Carlos tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Instead he leaned down, pressing his forehead to Lando’s, breath ragged and hot.

Lando wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, letting him take whatever he needed. That was the real pleasure now—feeling Carlos get lost inside him. Watching him unravel.

Carlos lasted only a little longer. Lando saw it—felt it—the way his hips faltered, the groan that tore low from his chest, the grip tightening on Lando’s thigh. Then he broke, orgasm hitting hard and deep, his whole body shuddering with it. His thrusts turned erratic, messy, his jaw clenching as he moaned Lando’s name into his skin.

Lando kissed him wherever he could reach—his temple, his cheek, the damp curls at his hairline—holding him tight as Carlos emptied himself into the condom. He could feel the tremors racing through him, could feel his weight pressing down, every movement a testament to how good it was, how overwhelming.

And God, Lando loved it. Loved being the reason Carlos came apart like this. Loved that his body could give Carlos this much pleasure, that he could feel every shiver, every ragged breath up close. He didn’t care that his own cock stayed soft, that there wasn’t another orgasm left in him. It didn’t matter. The real satisfaction was this: Carlos shaking above him, undone by him, choosing him.

When it finally eased, Carlos collapsed forward — not all his weight, just enough that Lando could feel the heat of him, the frantic thud of his heart pressed against his chest.

“Shit,” Carlos muttered against his skin, voice hoarse and wrecked. “You’re… you’re incredible.”

Lando gave a breathless little laugh, still dazed but full of something warm and certain. “So are you.”

And he meant it. With every part of him. The truth of it seemed to stop Carlos for a moment; it quieted him, steadied him in a way nothing else could have.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos didn’t move straight away. He stayed inside, holding himself still, heart still racing, pressing small kisses to Lando’s shoulder, his throat, anywhere his mouth could land. He was reluctant to let go, but eventually he drew in a shaky breath and whispered against his skin, “I’m gonna clean you up. Just stay there, cariño.”

Lando hummed a sleepy agreement.

Carlos eased out carefully, rolling from the bed. He slipped the condom off with deliberate hands, tied it, disposed of it. The smallest things felt enormous now — the sound of the drawer, the weight of the towel in his hand, the cool condensation on the water bottle. When he came back, Lando was still sprawled where he had left him, blinking slow and dazed at the ceiling, so soft and open he almost didn’t look real.

Carlos touched his knee, gentle. “Let me?”

Another small nod. “Yeah.”

He cleaned him carefully, taking his time, as though every stroke of the warm towel was a way of saying the words he hadn’t found earlier. He soothed every twitch of oversensitivity with a low murmur, Spanish spilling quiet and reverent from his lips. He wiped Lando’s thighs with a tenderness that felt closer to worship than care. Only when he was sure Lando was comfortable did he set the towel aside, draw the blanket over them, and lie down beside him.

He opened his arms. Lando came easily, like he belonged there.

The silence thickened, but not in a way that asked to be broken. They lay tangled, the heat of sex still in the air, their bodies sticky and flushed, and for the first time Carlos let himself hold Lando as though he had a right to. He kissed the curls at the crown of his head, breathing him in.

And it didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like the beginning of something Carlos wasn’t ready to name—but knew, without question, he could never walk away from.

The duvet slipped low, pooled at their waists. Neither of them bothered with it. Carlos lay on his back, one arm folded beneath his head, the other curved easily around Lando’s shoulder. Lando curled close, half on his side, fingers drawing slow, idle lines across Carlos’ chest. The rhythm of it lulled him. That nervous, sharp-edged boy who’d opened the door hours earlier was gone; what remained was quiet, settled warmth.

Carlos felt it in himself too. A rare peace, the kind that came after the truth finally tore itself free.

He glanced down at the top of Lando’s head. “Comfortable?”

The noise Lando made was half a word, half a sigh—an obviously—and then, clearer, “If you move, I’ll kick you.”

Carlos’ smile was small, helpless. “Noted.”

The air thickened again, but this silence was different—full, not empty. Their bodies were still talking for them.

Lando lifted his head eventually, eyes finding Carlos’ with a searching softness. “You’re not freaking out or anything?”

Carlos let his fingers drift down the length of Lando’s spine, feeling the relaxed weight of him. “No. Are you?”

A small shake of curls. Lando dropped his head back to Carlos’ shoulder. “Just checking. You seemed very together tonight.”

Carlos traced slow circles at the nape of his neck. “I wasn’t. Not until you opened the door.”

A muffled snort. “I thought about slamming it. Just to be dramatic.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yeah. I’m soft like that.”

Carlos smiled again, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I like it.”

A beat. Lando shifted closer, muttering into the crook of his neck, “Don’t get soppy on me.”

Carlos’ quiet laugh shook his chest against Lando’s cheek. “Okay. No soppy.”

They let the silence have them again. The city outside was muted—only the hum of a scooter passing, the faint salt of the sea in the night air. Carlos breathed it in, grounding himself in the weight curled against him.

After a while, Lando’s voice came again, loose with the edge of sleep. “You can stay, if you want. Just saying.”

Carlos didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he tugged the duvet up around them both, tucked it snug at Lando’s back. He leaned down, kissed his temple, and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Lando softened instantly. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His body sank into Carlos, breath evening out until sleep claimed him.

Carlos stayed awake a little longer. Long enough to watch him sleep. Long enough to be sure.

*~*~*~*~*

The End.